


There's Something About a Man in a Suit…

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Who would have ever thought a Santa suit could lead tosuch things?





	There's Something About a Man in a Suit…

**Author's Note:**

> Um, hadn't really thought about when this takes place. Probably before they're married or living together. Special thanks to [](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonybeach**](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/) for inspiring me to whip this up in time for Christmas Day (Pacific Standard Time).
> 
> Any typos/mistakes/repeats of the same word ten times in two paragraphs are entirely and utterly my own (i.e. no time to pass the final version by quality control, i.e. [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/) ).
> 
> Disclaimer: Oh boy, _so_ not mine.

The room was dark save for the amber glow of the crackling fire and the shining white fairy lights adorning the large silver fir; the better portion of a glass of the best red wine she'd ever had in her life was warmly coursing through her veins; the softest woollen tartan blanket covered her and kept her toasty warm; soft music lingered in the air throughout the quiet, quaint, cosy country cottage, snow floating lazily down past the window panes.

All of these things combined made it easy to see why, despite the excitement of it being Christmas Eve, Bridget came to fall fast asleep.

A rustling sound roused her from her slumber, but what she saw when she opened her eyes made her think she was dreaming:

Though it was dim in the room, she could discern a figure bent down in front of the tree dressed in a red plush coat and hat with a lighter-coloured trim, clearly moving gifts around under the tree. She squinted, pushing herself up. It looked like bloody Santa Claus!

At that moment the figure turned and durr, of course it was Mark; who else would it be? She smiled, reclining back once more into the sofa cushions.

"Hello sleepyhead," he said, getting to his feet, regarding her intensely. She brought her brows together and saw quite plainly that she had not been imagining things. He was wearing a what looked like a velvety ruby-coloured robe with furry white trim on each hem and sashed loosely at the waist; no shirt beneath, she noted. He also wore coordinating burgundy bottoms that tapered to follow the shape of his leg. Upon his head and set to a slight, jaunty angle was perched a matching hat with a furry brim; the hat came to a point and was folded over so that the small white tassel at the end sat just below his earlobe.

For some unfathomable reason, he was dressed like Santa Claus, only… _whoo_. He looked bloody sexy in all that tactilely inviting fabric, and her eyes were transfixed by the bare skin revealed by the vee of the robe, open all the way to his trouser waistband.

"What are you doing?"

"It's nearing midnight," he said, the planes of his face highlighted by the firelight, "and it's time to see who's been naughty and who's been nice."

She raised a singular eyebrow. "Have you been keeping a list?"

His expression betrayed the subtlest of smiles. "Absolutely."

"And how do I rate?"

"Exactly as I'd expected."

He strode to the wingback chair between the fireplace and the tree and took a seat, knees slightly parted, his eyes trained on her once again. The parted halves of the robe fell further open.

She had no idea what had gotten into him, but she rather liked it.

"Why don't you come here and tell me what you'd like, and I'll tell you whether you were good enough—or bad enough—to deserve it."

If anyone were to have asked her even earlier that day if she had ever had any sitting-on-Santa's-lap fantasies, she would have shuddered and run in the other direction, but with the way he sat there, looking at her with dark, smoky eyes, bathed in firelight, she had to admit a newborn kink was in the process of being born.

She rose from the sofa, tossing the tartan blanket aside. The relatively cooler air hit her skin and made her shiver involuntarily; she was dressed in a nightshirt better suited for summer than winter. She walked over to him and sat across his lap.

"So, my darling Bridget," he said in a low voice, his arm encircling her waist, his lips brushing against her earlobe. "What would you like for Christmas?" He moved his hand to her arm, then stroked his fingers up and down her forearm.

She felt her lids droop; the soft, supple cloth of his outfit moving against her bare skin felt positively heavenly, as did his attentions to her ear. Abruptly she turned to face him, her eyes fixing on his.

"I'd really like to pin you down and shag you senseless," she said breathlessly.

He was silent for a moment. "Hmmm. 'Naughty' is spot on, I see."

She turned on his lap to straddle his legs, pushing him back by the shoulders. Clearly he was having fantasies of his own, indicated by the firmness she felt when she leaned into him.

"Oh, but I didn't leave out any biscuits or milk for you," she said coyly, arching her hips forward.

She felt his hands running up her thighs, pushing up her nightie, and moving around to her bare backside. "I think I prefer the alternative," he said gruffly.

She smiled, leaned forward but didn't kiss him, just brushed her lips against the corner of his for longer than was kind; she felt him exhale heavily, felt his fingers press more firmly into her arse.

"Oh, Mark, it's too late to try to sell yourself as 'Nice'," she murmured, her lips moving against him as she spoke. "Looked like you were frightfully so when I met you, but little did I know—"

The force of his mouth on hers, claiming the kiss she'd denied him, caused her to immediately forget what her point was or to care about talking at all. She lifted her hands and combed her fingers through the short hair over his ears, her knuckles brushing against the soft faux fur of the hat. This innocuous action drove her completely wild and she bucked her hips into him again.

He broke away with a groan. "Naughty girl," he muttered.

She became instantly contrite and resolved to relieve his suffering as soon as possible. She dove for the waistband of his trousers and for once in her life was thankful for elastic-waisted trousers, as it made her task ever so much easier. "Bloody Christmas miracle," she said before raising herself up and onto him.

As she did she heard him groan low in his throat; he reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up and over her head, making her hair go mad with static. He reached his hands up to smooth it down just as she began to move rhythmically on his lap. Reflexively he pulled her close, kissing her, running his hands down over her breasts before wrapping his arms around her, pulling her flush to him. The feel of that soft furry edging against her very hard nipples was beyond arousing, and she started whimpering into his mouth.

He had his hands on her arse again, holding tightly onto her, thrusting up into her downward movements as best he could being very much pinned beneath her. With a husky moan he broke from the kiss, his chin raised high, his body taut as wire; she took the opportunity to assault his very fine throat with delicate kisses and gently grazing teeth as she escalated the speed and strength of her motion. She slipped her hands into the robe and raked her nails over his chest, which appeared to have the desired effect of triggering his release; as he kissed her again he moaned into her mouth. His hands were still steadfast on her hips, though, insisting she continue moving.

He was a very good very bad man; he knew she hadn't yet come.

He ran his fingers up and down her thighs as she did; the furry cuff brushing against her highly sensitised skin quickly became more than she could bear, and coupled with the fur and velvet of the robe against her breasts, she found herself throwing her head back and crying out as wave after wave of climax overtook her.

At last she went still. As she sat there on his lap, arching back, eyes closed and panting for air, she felt him tugging her towards him to fold her into his arms, the soft fabric of the arms of his robe sliding across her back as he kissed her tenderly.

"Oh Bridget," he said raspily between kisses. "My darling naughty little Christmas angel."

She laughed lightly, quietly. "That seems contradictory."

"You're very bad in very good ways," he explained, then sighed in a most satisfied fashion. "God, I love you."

"Funny you should say that," she said, then told him about her thoughts during the heat of passion. He chuckled too.

She reared up her head to look him in the eyes. "Happy Christmas, Mark."

"Happy Christmas, my love."

He then reached up, took the hat from his head, and set it down upon hers, fixing the tassel just over her ear. She furrowed her brows in query.

"Judging by the state of your exceedingly attractive breasts, you're cold," he explained, "so I was just trying to prevent the further loss of heat from your exceedingly gorgeous body."

"That, darling, is not due to being cold. On the contrary. Very hot." She pushed herself upright again with a devilish smirk. "Go ahead. See for yourself."

"How do I know this isn't a trap?" he asked in return.

"Do you care?"

"Hm, I see what you mean," he said thoughtfully. "Better be sure anyway."

He then leaned forward and took her around the waist, taking the hard point of her breast between his lips, grazing it with his teeth. She gasped.

Very good at being bad, indeed.

Holding her around the waist still, he pushed them both forward; he bent and kneeled on the floor then laid her down upon the soft sheepskin in front of the fire. He then assiduously attended to each breast with his mouth; her fingers wove into the fur beneath her, the hat somehow still firmly upon her head as she tipped it back, writhing with his delicious torture until it abruptly stopped.

She opened her eyes, saw him up on his knees in all his glory. He bent to push the trousers down, and made to take off the robe too, untying the sash belt at the waist. "No," she said as it came loose.

He tilted his head as the halves swished open like a curtain. "No?"

"Leave it on," she gasped, licking her suddenly-dry lips.

"Never knew you had a thing for cotton velvet and fake fur," he teased, leaning back down over her, bracing himself up on his elbows before lowering to kiss her again.

She raised her hands, running her fingers over the lines of his shoulders and forearms as he pressed his body against hers. Joining with her once more, he carried on with great enthusiasm; though they were mostly skin to skin, the tantalising brushes of his robe sent frissons through her already electrically-charged body, quickly building until she came with a great cry, arching up into him, pressing her fingers into his back, running her nails along his skin. She could immediately hear his breathing change, felt his pace quicken, until he stopped, stiffened and shuddered, moaning into her shoulder, pressing his lips to her skin.

Still breathing heavily, he leaned to rest on his right arm, taking her with him, drawing her protectively to his chest and kissing her with great reverence. She ran her hand over the velvet of his robe around to his back, felt the damp of his sweat through the fabric, running her fingers up and down lovingly.

She felt his hand cradling her head, felt him press a kiss into her hair as he pushed her hair back. "I was right," he said quietly.

"Hmm?" she asked drowsily.

"It _was_ a trap."

At that she laughed and lifted her chin to kiss him on the lips. "Yes. A clever ploy to distract you from giving me a present I've been dying to open for two weeks now."

He smiled, silently laughing before pushing himself upright. He got to his knees, reaching first to right the hat on her head, then for the tartan blanket she'd discarded, then for the gifts, six in total. Which meant—

"Mark," she said incredulously as she rose to sit, the blanket around her, as he laid four meticulously wrapped gifts at her knees. "You really didn't need to get—"

"I know. I wanted to."

He sat again, sitting cross-legged with his presents, looked at each one from every angle, probably inspecting the crooked cellotape, wrinkled edges and sloppy ribbons. However he turned his eyes to her, smiling.

"Go first," she said, suddenly sure that her perfect presents were anything but.

He slipped his finger under the tape and popped open each strip before pulling the paper off of the box. He opened the lid and looked to her with a tender smile. "Bridget. Thank you."

He lifted from the box the coordinated heather grey cashmere scarf and leather glove set she'd found for him at Marks and Spencer. "I thought it would look nice with your long black coat," she said.

"You need not look so glum, darling," he said, probably at seeing her expression. "They're wonderful, particularly because you took the time to buy them for me."

She smiled. 

He reached for the second, pulling open the paper to reveal a book. He grinned, then laughed. It was a book she'd found, five centuries of strange but true legal cases.

"This is marvellous. Not the sort of thing they focus on in law school."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," he said, flipping it open, scanning the pages, grinning still. Surely he wasn't faking his delight. "This'll be very entertaining." He turned his glittering eyes to her. "Thank you again." He set the book down, reached to kiss her. "Now go on," he continued. "Your turn."

She was almost afraid to tear open the wrapping, so perfect was the job, but she did. Each gift was better than the last, leaving her stunned: a pale blue jumper knit from spun bamboo fibre, which was extremely soft to the touch and, Mark assured, very warm; a small bottle of perfume she'd mentioned once in passing, saying she thought it smelled nice and he'd agreed; and a handbag to replace the one she'd spilled India ink all over, much nicer and rather more expensive than the original ruined one. By the time she got to that last box she was more than a little nervous. _What's in there_ , she thought, _the Crown Jewels?_

"What are you waiting for?" he asked; it was difficult to judge his expression. Eager? Playful?

"Mark, you're too good to me," she said.

"Stop that," he admonished. "Just open it."

She felt inexplicably shy considering what they'd just done on the sheepskin; taking a reassuring breath, she decided to bite the bullet and open the gift.

"Wow, Mark. These are… stunning."

They were a pair of earrings, gloriously sparkling diamond studs from Tiffany's, and really, they were the most gorgeous, most expensive piece of jewellery any man had ever given her.

However, she could not help but start to laugh.

"Bridget?" he asked, sounding concerned, even hurt.

"Oh, Mark, I'm touched beyond belief," she said as her giggle fit wound down. "They're amazing. But honestly, in all of the time we've spent together, all of the time you've spent nibbling my bloody earlobes, have you really never noticed I don't have ear piercings?"

He blinked, then blinked again, staring at her, clearly amazed that despite his usual attention to detail he had somehow neglected to notice her earlobes were unsullied.

She set the box down and crawled to sit in his lap, wrapping the blanket around the two of them. He spent many subsequent moments staring at her ears, even going so far as to take the lobe between his thumb and forefinger.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said at last, as if in shock.

She giggled again. "I do love my presents," she said, rearing back to meet his eyes. "And I love you."

"Suppose three out of four isn't bad," he said, recovering his composure at last. "And it isn't as if we couldn't exchange them for something else."

She smiled, then kissed him again as she giggled. They were soon falling back upon the sheepskin, the velvet and fur leading to yet more ecstasy.

As she drifted off to sleep, she realised she never did learn where on earth the outfit he'd worn had even come from. _Doesn't matter_ , she thought. _Long as he gets to keep it. Love for this to become a yearly tradition._

_Though if we ever have children…_

He would just never play Santa himself, she resolved.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [Mark's book inspired by a real book...](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Laws-Strangest-Cases-Extraordinary-Incidents/dp/1861054637)


End file.
